Slices of Life
by Terra
Summary: “Who do you ship, Heero?” asked Relena offhandedly. “Who do I what?” “Ship,” she repeated. “What's your OTP?” “My what?” Heero learns more about fandom than he ever wanted to know.
1. TAKING OUT THE TRASH SERIES

Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing, which is a registered trademark of Sotsu Agency Co., LTD. TM & Sunrise & under license by Bandai.

A/N- This was written for the gw500 LJ community's weekly prompts; this week's prompt was "**trash**." _Mi Casa, Su Casa_ can be read as a companion story to my series, _Valhalla_, but also stands alone.

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**Mi Casa, Su Casa**

by Terra

* * *

It had become a daily ritual. At the end of the work day, she would patiently load the shredder and watch as the blades dissected countless pages before spewing them out into the trash bag below. Then, she would tie the bag with a double-knot, sling it over her shoulder and carry it out to the dumpsters behind the federal building. If anyone wondered why the Vice Foreign Minister of Interstellar Affairs was taking out the trash, they wisely kept their thoughts to themselves. For Relena, it was cathartic, a necessary action to discard any residual worries that might follow her home. 

When she walked into the office that morning, her colleagues had been aghast. Twenty-one, they reminded her, was an important time in a young woman's life. She had barely fielded a few phone calls, before she had been unceremoniously ushered out of the office, trash bag in hand and told in no uncertain terms that she would not be allowed back in until tomorrow. Relena considered being grumpy, then resigned herself to the wisdom of their words. She stared woefully at the lumpy trash bag before coming to a decision. She would throw it away and then head home for a long overdue bubble bath.

"You're taking out the trash."

Startled, her hand slipped off the hood of the dumpster and it clanged shut, narrowly missing her fingers. She said, wryly, "It does seem that way, doesn't it?"

"I don't see your security detail."

"You're awfully obvious today." Her voice was serene, barely containing her mirth. "It could be, because they're not here."

"You've become careless."

"And you've become paranoid. I can take care of myself."

"You didn't notice me approach."

"If I could have, then I wouldn't need you anymore, would I?"

He mulled her words over for a moment. "You need me?"

"Of course," she teased, "without you, I wouldn't have any idea what to do with my damsel self if I were kidnapped again. I may have to resort to such dramatic measures as escaping."

"You've changed, Relena."

"So have you. Don't look so surprised. Everyone changes."

He hesitated. "You've done well for yourself."

"I wish I could reciprocate your compliment," her tone was bittersweet, "but I haven't any idea what you've done for yourself, well or otherwise."

In the uncomfortable silence that followed, she looked at him, with a relentless gaze, not probing, not accusing, but full of an intensity he couldn't discern. It startled him how blue her eyes had become. Was it possible that he had forgotten how she always looked at him? But no, he hadn't forgotten. She had changed. She was not looking at him now with a demand in her eyes. She looked merely interested, curious. It took another moment for him to realize that her intensity came from her unconscious charisma, a forceful magnetism she was no longer aware of. He replied, "I went back to school to study architecture."

"Oh?" she smiled, pleased. "I always thought you might go into engineering, but architecture is much better."

He echoed, "Better?"

"Because you won't be able to hide behind a computer or in a laboratory. Your best will be on display for the world to see."

"What makes you think I want to hide?"

"Because you're very private," she paused, in consideration, "no, that's not all. You're the type who won't care about acknowledgment. It wouldn't bother you at all to work behind-the-scenes. That's why I'm glad you're going to be an architect, because you won't allow public opinion to sway you, either."

He said, slowly, "I didn't think about that. I just like construction – building, instead of …"

"Destroying?" she interrupted, softly.

"Yes."

"I'm happy for you."

"Thank you," his voice was rough, untrained, "but I'm here to wish you happiness today."

"I know."

He handed her a photograph. Her breath caught as she reached for it. As she took in its contents, she smiled genuinely, a sharp disparity from the practiced one always straining the muscles of her face. Relena was looking at the projection of a house – its glassy panes unafraid to reveal the contents within, the relentless skyward reach of its rafters and the utilitarian division of its spaces – her house, if she wanted it.

Heero said, "I graduated today. I came to offer my services."

* * *

- 

A/N- There are so many stories starring Relena that open with her hating the piles of paperwork on her desk, which I've always thought as terribly cliché, so I thought I'd write one where she shreds them instead. This was my first attempt at a flashfic. I'm one of those people who writes sprawling epic stories (as anyone who's read _Valhalla_ can certainly attest to) so I hope this was enjoyable. Thanks for reading!


	2. Trash: For Remembrance

Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing, which is a registered trademark of Sotsu Agency Co., LTD. TM & Sunrise & under license by Bandai.

A/N- This was also written for this week's prompt from the gw500 LJ community: "**trash**." _For Remembrance _can be considered a sequel to _Mi Casa, Su Casa, _but also stands alone. It can also be viewed as a companion to my series, _Valhalla_.

* * *

**For Remembrance**

by Terra

* * *

Duo knew a losing battle when he saw one. But that fact had never deterred him before, so he fought back with a tenacity bordering on obsession. By the second week, when he had to curb his gag reflex every time he walked into the kitchen while Hilde stood by unperturbed, he conceded defeat and begrudgingly added 'taking out the trash' to his list of chores. That morning, when Hilde had announced that it was that time of the week again, she gave him a look that broached no complaint. He shuffled outside with the trash, muttering under his breath.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" she said, sweetly.

He slammed the door.

"You're taking out the trash."

Duo jerked back, his hand instinctively hovering over the switchblade on his belt. "You scared the shit out of me!" He relaxed and peered up at him in mock suspicion. "And yeah, I'm taking out the trash. Hilde didn't send you up to check on me, did she?"

"No," he paused, "I just seem to have that kind of timing."

"What?"

"I walked in on Relena taking out the trash, too."

Duo laughed. "The princess takes out her own trash?"

"Seems so."

"So …" his merry tone sobered. "How've you been?"

"Good. You?"

"Uh … great, actually." Duo gestured panoramically. "This is all mine and Hilde's. You'd think she'd be more lax about chores seeing as how we live on a trash heap."

He glanced around the junkyard, noting the scraped, rusty forklift and the row of crates lying beside it in wait for transport to clients. "What's in it for you?"

"The pleasure of people like you's company, of course." He winked. "Nah, I'm just a businessman at heart. A people person, you understand."

"I see."

"Well, there's the junk to consider, too. I'll have you know that this is an inventor's paradise!"

"An inventor?"

"I'm wounded. You didn't think that kissing up to people was all I did for a living?" Duo indicated a garage spray-painted, 'Duoshop 2.0,' with a tilt of his head. "That one there's my workshop. I've got three patents for the Duomax Turbo pending."

"What … is it?"

"It's an energy-efficient engine. Better than anything else on the market." He frowned slightly. "I've got to work on getting the cost down, though." After a moment, he asked, "So … are you here to chat or take a look at the goods?"

His eyes swept the length of the yard, searching. "A few years ago, the Preventers decommissioned all the Serpents. Have you come across any of their parts?"

"Sure. I scavenge all kinds of mobile suits." Duo eyed him curiously. "What do you need 'em for?"

"Relena …" he hesitated, "wants part of her house built out of mobile suit parts … for remembrance."

Duo said, incredulously. "And she sent you out here as her errand boy?"

"No, as her architect."

"Huh, I didn't figure you for the artistic type."

He smiled faintly. "Neither did I."

"Come on," Duo flung his thumb back towards the house. "We can catch up over breakfast. Hilde makes a mean stack of pancakes." When they were seated, he continued, "Now that I think about it, this architect gig suits you. You've always been brainy and out-of-the-box."

"… Thanks," he said, dryly.

"Don't let it go to your head. And when you make it to the big time, try not to get too diva-like on us." Duo grinned. "Say, how do you feel about skyscrapers?"

"I'm going to design them."

"Great. Did you know Quatre's holding a competition for the rights to design one for him?" He waved a pancake. "And I think I'm lookin' at his architect."

"I'd have to win."

Duo snorted. "Like that'd stop you."

There was a heavy silence as he pondered his response. It had been years since he had last seen Duo, but he could immediately trace all the ways he had been softened by the passage of time. His eyes no longer stung in merriment, looking hurt by the world. On their way to the house, he had not walked as if a whip would soon bear down on him. It surprised him to realize that Duo had long ago ceased waiting for some kind of divine retribution. He said, thoughtfully, "I'll need parts from you."

"Huh?"

Heero reached over towards Duo's laden plate and stole a pancake. "For when I build Quatre's skyscraper."

That evening, hours after his friend had departed, Duo chuckled, recalling the email he had received that morning:

_Duo, _

_How are you? It's been a while since we last spoke. And how is Hilde? I'm sure that business must be thriving. As a friendly warning, though, I thought you might want to know that Heero is coming to visit you soon. He's an architect now. I sent him over to you the first chance I got and I know the others would appreciate the same. _

_Yours truly, _

_Relena Darlian _

_P.S. Quatre is hosting a competition for the rights to build Winner Tower._

_

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- _

A/N- Thank you sincerely to all those who reviewed my first ever flashfic. Here, I have also tried to approach Duo unconventionally. I really hope you've enjoyed it. Thanks for reading!


	3. Trash: Danger Dogs

Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing, which is a registered trademark of Sotsu Agency Co., LTD. TM & Sunrise & under license by Bandai. 

A/N- This is the last flashfic written for this week's prompt from the gw500 LJ community: "**trash**." _Danger Dogs _can be considered a sequel to both _Mi Casa, Su Casa _and _For Remembrance_, but also stands alone. This is the first installment of this series that is completely divorced from the _Valhalla _universe, although they share some superficial similarities.

* * *

**Danger Dogs**

by Terra

* * *

Quatre bade the smiling face on the vidscreen goodbye and terminated the call. Settling comfortably against the headrest in his leather swivel chair, he wound his arm back. He took careful aim. He launched the disc and it arced across the room just as his door opened and landed neatly in the recycle bin. On top of the pile of discs already lying there. As if on cue, it slid off the mound and twirled dizzily on the ground before falling still. Raking a hand through his mussed hair in mild frustration, he looked at his bemused secretary expectantly. She said, "Sir, Harold Yeung is waiting for you." 

"Send him in." He looked again at the disc heap. "Never mind. Tell him to wait. I'm coming out. I really need to get out of this office." Quatre retrieved the lone disc on the floor and placed it in the recycle bin. Then, he heaved it into his arms and walked out into the hall. He passed the small waiting room tucked around the corner from his office and called back over his shoulder, "Mr. Yeung, if you'll just wait a moment, I'll be right with you."

"You're taking out the trash."

Startled, he whirled around, sending a wave of silver discs the speaker's way. He smiled. "Mr. Yeung, I presume?"

Catching the stray discs in midair, he stared at the bin in Quatre's arms. He said, wryly, "I think I'm cursed."

"What?"

"You're … taking out the trash."

"… yes, I am."

"Never mind," he muttered. "What are those?"

"The losing entries to the competition. I'd shake your hand, but I'm a little preoccupied right now." Quatre pivoted and resumed walking towards a grate protruding from the wall. Hoisting the bin on his knee, he freed one hand to pull it open and dumped the contents into the chute. When he had emptied the container, he walked back and held out his hand. "Congratulations. You're hired."

He shook the offered hand. "It's good to see you."

"It's been almost five years, hasn't it?" Quatre gestured towards the window. "Let's get out of here. I can't remember the last time I went for a walk without a destination."

As soon as they passed through the sliding glass doors of the entrance, Quatre made a beeline for a street vendor settled at the opposite corner of the boulevard. He said, smiling as if sharing a secret: "Yaqoob makes the most unbelievable hot dogs."

"Aren't you …"

"A practicing Muslim? Trust me, all the food around here's halal."

They fell into a companionable silence as they crossed the street against the throng of milling pedestrians returning from lunch break. He broke it uncharacteristically, "Did you know it was me?"

"Did you want me to?" Quatre shot back.

He admitted, "No."

"Well, I didn't. As it so happens, there are other people in this world with your initials." Quatre's light blue eyes met his darker gaze. "Listen, I asked for a monument of enterprise, of human ingenuity and the design the others submitted – their answer was offensive. Their models were undignified and unremarkable. Yours was revolutionary. I didn't choose you, because I knew you. I chose you, because you came nearest to getting it right."

"I see."

He turned towards the stand owner. "The usual, Yaqoob. What're you having?"

"Just a dog with relish and mustard."

"A purist, then?" Quatre paid for their orders. "Somehow, I'm not surprised."

He looked from his own hot dog to his friend's. "What … is that?"

"It's a danger dog." Seeing the blank look on his face, Quatre laughed. "It's a South American variation with beef bacon for those of us who can't eat pork."

Glancing down at his own half-eaten dog, he quickly finished the rest. Reaching into his pocket for his wallet, he told Yaqoob, "I'll have what he's having." Catching his friend's amused look, he said, "I used to be dangerous, remember? Besides, I'm still growing."

"Sideways, maybe."

"Feel threatened?" He gazed at the other man appraisingly. "I notice I've still got an inch on you."

As they headed back across the street, Quatre, frowning in mock seriousness, stated: "That's just because you're older. I've got thirty generations of taller ancestors on you."

"What makes you think I'm older?"

"Forgive me, Mr. Yeung. I assumed you weren't lying about your date of birth."

"You're right." His eyes turned skyward and he squinted against the artificial sun. "I wasn't lying. I don't know when I was born."

"Why June 1st, then?"

"That was the month I graduated." He smiled faintly. "And I like the number one."

Quatre laughed. "You would. Is that where you've been all this time? Studying architecture?"

"After the war, I was a rivet catcher in the reconstruction on L3. I was working for you, actually. I never learned more about architecture anywhere else," he explained, offhandedly. "I've been an electrician, and a plumber, and a demolitionist and many other things. I went to school last."

"It shows. I've never put much stock in school myself." They stopped at the entrance of the Winner Building. Quatre turned and put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "It's good to have you back."

Heero said, firmly, "It's good to be back."

A short while later, when he strode past his secretary's desk on the way to his office, Quatre saw a handwritten note lying on top of a stack of messages he had missed. It read:

_Told you about the trash thing._

_DM

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- _

A/N- Thanks to everyone who's reviewed! I never planned for these flashfics to become a series, but I was just having so much fun with the "trash" running joke. The whole 'reunion' idea is in full swing now and I expect Heero will visit everyone he left behind (or perhaps they'll visit him...) for reconciliation. Thank you all for reading!


	4. Chess: The Queen

Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing, which is a registered trademark of Sotsu Agency Co., LTD. TM & Sunrise & under license by Bandai.

A/N- Continuing with the reunion theme, here's the flashfic written for this week's prompt from the gw500 LJ community: "**chess**." _The Queen _can be considered a sequel to _Mi Casa, Su Casa_;_ For Remembrance_; and _Danger Dogs_, but also stands alone. This is the second installment of this series that is separate from the _Valhalla _universe, although they share a few surface resemblances.

* * *

**The Queen**

by Terra

* * *

Trowa effortlessly navigated the maze of equipment and construction workers, only pausing once to ask for directions. A foreman yelled over the din of drills, "It's right down the hall. The boss's in the last room." When he stepped into the last "room," as devoid of walls and other various components that typically made up rooms as every other space he had walked through, he knocked lightly against a metal pillar. The man leaning over an expansive blueprint that spanned the length of the desk – the lone piece of furniture in the room – glanced up, looking mildly surprised. 

"I come bearing gifts." Trowa said, juggling an irregularly shaped package lightly in his hands. When he was awarded with a blank look, he continued, unperturbed: "It's a housewarming present."

"This isn't my house."

"I certainly hope not…" Trowa surveyed the otherwise vacant lot, the dirt floor and the glaring absence of walls. "Although, I'd rather not get into your creature comforts."

Coming to a decision, his friend sighed before straightening and stepping away from the table. He warily eyed the package. "What is it?"

"Why don't you find out?" Trowa calmly challenged, handing it to the other man. After a moment, he resumed, "It was very odd. When Quatre told me you were here, he wanted me to … take out the trash when you showed up. Any idea what that's about?"

For a moment, he looked stunned. Then, he laughed in revelation; shaking his head, he said, "Don't worry about it." Unwrapping the brown paper sheathing the package, he stared at its contents. "They're chess pieces."

Trowa said, wryly, "No, they're hand-chiseled chess pieces."

"You made them?" He gingerly lifted a white queen from the cluster and examined it.

"I used to collect rocks from everywhere I went. After the war, Cathy gave me a rock-hammer, and it just seemed like I should do something with them."

"Are you still working with her at the circus?"

"In a manner of speaking … Cathy and I own it now …" there was a faint trace of pride in his voice, "a few years ago, the manager retired and we bought it."

Looking at the tall, lanky man leaning against the steel pillar, he realized why he initially felt unsettled in this man's presence. The Trowa he had known carried himself like a predator with his claws retracted, a man who was most lethal when he seemed most at ease. Seeing him now for the first time in years, he knew that this was not the same Trowa Barton, who had considered himself weak, because a girl's tears had stopped him from self-destruction. This Trowa Barton was a man, who had found peace, who was at peace. Smiling faintly, he asked, "How's business?"

"Good." Trowa tilted his head towards the chess piece in his friend's hand. "Aren't you going to admire the workmanship?"

His brow creased in concentration, he frowned as he peered closely at the white queen. "Is that a light saber? And … thrusters?"

"Looks familiar, doesn't it?"

"Is this …" he continued, slowly, incredulously, "supposed to be Zero?"

"Fitting, isn't it?" Trowa smiled slightly. "You, being the queen."

He repeated, "… I'm the queen."

"You were always the most versatile. And the best of us."

Nodding numbly, he asked: "So, which one are you?"

Walking over, Trowa rifled through the pieces, ultimately choosing one that resembled a deformed Heavyarms. Twirling it in his hand, he said, "The rook."

"But you've miscalculated," Heero said, softly. "I don't know how to play chess."

"It's good then … that I didn't make these for you." Laughing at the surprised expression on Heero's face, he said, "They're for the game we'll play the next time I visit. I'm sure you'll have learned chess by then."

* * *

- 

A/N- Thank you all for reviewing! I love writing these ficlets, because I get to be quirky in my portrayal of the characters and take them places that don't quite fit in my canonic series, _Valhalla_. I hope you'll look forward to next week (and by now, I'm sure you can guess who's coming to visit). Thank you all for reading!


	5. Key: Some Kind of an Honor

Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing, which is a registered trademark of Sotsu Agency Co., LTD. TM & Sunrise & under license by Bandai. 

A/N- The penultimate ficlet in the 'trash' series! Here's the flashfic written for this week's prompt from the gw500 LJ community: "**key**." _Some Kind of an Honor _can be considered a sequel to _Mi Casa, Su Casa_;_ For Remembrance_; _Danger Dogs _and _The Queen_, but also stands alone. This entry in the series can be considered a part of the _Valhalla _universe.

* * *

**Some Kind of an Honor**

by Terra

* * *

He was walking down the steps of the Municipal Hall, having just submitted additional blueprints for the building department's review, when he saw the unmistakable figure of Wufei pacing frenetically on the pavement alongside the curving flight of stairs – a place conveniently hidden from the eyesight of pedestrians. Considering that the L1 Preventer Headquarters was stationed across the street, he wasn't entirely surprised to see Wufei.

But the Chinese man was pacing agitatedly, occasionally glancing down at the papers he clutched in his left hand. His suit jacket draped over one shoulder, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, Wufei gesticulated wildly in the rhythm of his footfalls. But not only was the typically reserved man pacing and gesticulating wildly, he was also actively conversing … with a wall.

"What are you doing?"

Wufei's head shot up. When their eyes met and he found himself looking up at his former comrade's bemused expression, he said, disgruntled: "What does it look like?"

"Like you're having an argument with yourself," he paused, "or suffering a psychotic break."

"It's worse." Wufei walked around the stairway until he stood facing the other man. "I've been chosen," his voice was leaden, heavy with the implication that great injustice had been committed, "as the keynote speaker for the annual Preventers Association conference." With the kind of expression a man usually reserved for answering the question, 'Would you like to become pregnant?' Wufei added, gravely, "It's supposed to be some kind of an honor."

"Congratulations," he said, wryly.

"My colleagues were so profuse with their … compliments that I had to flee," his friend said, by way of explanation, inclining his head towards his hiding spot.

"How long do you have?"

"About an hour. Come on. I just bought some high grade oolong leaves. We can drink tea while you distract me."

As they approached the crosswalk, he watched with amusement as his Preventer friend peered disdainfully at the speech written on the sheets in his hand before resolutely tossing them in the nearest trashcan. As they strode leisurely across the street to the Preventer building, he answered the question that Wufei had not asked aloud. "I'm an architect now."

"That explains things. You have a project in the works?"

"For now, Winner Tower … and a house for Relena. I'm negotiating another office building for next year."

"Busy," Wufei commented as they stepped out of the elevator onto a silent floor suspiciously empty of people. "With the conference, everyone's gone next door. We'll actually have some peace and quiet."

Walking into his friend's office, he noticed immediately that unlike the unkempt desks they had passed, everything was impeccably tidy: all the files in the inbox stacked evenly, his computer whirred softly on hibernate, his desk calendar neatly labeled in his calligraphic handwriting, except for that day's entry which had 'D-Day' scrawled hastily under the date in a distinctly feminine hand. Glancing at the digital picture frame on the desk which unwearyingly cycled through images of Wufei and Sally – in a spaceship, in the desert, in a helicopter, he asked, "How's Sally?"

Turning away from the tea kettle heating on the microstove, he set two mugs on the desk, gesturing towards the picture frame. "Good. And still insists on giving me annoying mementos. As if I don't see enough of her as it is."

"How long have you two been on L1?"

"About a year." As the kettle began to whistle, Wufei lifted it off the glowing coils and poured the boiling water into the two mugs before dropping in teabags. "You remember the Rampart scandal. We were called in after that."

"Thanks," he said, taking a sip from the steaming cup his friend slid in front of him. "It's good tea."

"I told you." Wufei smiled faintly.

Watching his friend lean casually against the back of his swivel chair, calmly drinking his tea in quiet satisfaction, he found it difficult to reconcile this Wufei with the impassioned, indignant idealist he had been in his youth. Some habits – his orderly manner and ingrained sense of duty, would never change, but the harsh internal struggle, the unrelenting desire – and hope – of finding a place he could belong, that once defined the proud soldier had faded, stripped down by the passing years. Relaxing into his own chair, Heero said, curiously, "What were you asked to speak on?"

Wufei said, gruffly, "The benefits of having women in the field."

* * *

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A/N- I thank everyone who's supported me in their reviews so far! I've always found Wufei one of the hardest characters to portray without betraying his background and canonic depiction. Even though, the rules are loosened for comedy, I still hope that I've captured him somewhat accurately in this little ficlet. Yes, this is the second to last in this series. No, the next one won't be an epilogue, but will reintroduce someone who'll help Heero to come full circle in dealing with his past. Thank you all for reading!


	6. Comb: Finished Business

Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing, which is a registered trademark of Sotsu Agency Co., LTD. TM & Sunrise & under license by Bandai.

A/N- After almost two years, we're finally at the end! This is the flashfic written for a prompt many moons ago from the gw500 LJ community: "**comb**." _Finished Business _can be considered a sequel to _Mi Casa, Su Casa_;_ For Remembrance_; _Danger Dogs; __The Queen _and _Some Kind of an Honor_, but also stands alone. This is not part of the _Valhalla _universe.

* * *

**Finished Business**

by Terra

* * *

He was returning from a meeting with a prospective client when he heard the unmistakable dulcet tones of a man he had never expected to see again. As he entered the waiting room, he found his secretary filling his favorite mug, saying breathily, "Oh, he's due back any minute now. Are you sure I can't interest you in a cup of coffee, mister …?"

"Merquise. Zechs Merquise. And no, thank you. Don't trouble yourself."

Her chin tilted up appraisingly, eyelids fluttered half-closed, she absently flung the mug in the trash. She laughed. "Oh, for you, it'd be no trouble at all."

Before Zechs could respond, he cleared his throat, drawing the other man's attention and earning a dirty look from his secretary which he returned with a pointed glance at the trash bin. "What are you doing here?"

His old enemy, once-comrade turned slowly to face him. "Is that any way to speak to a client?"

"I don't see one here."

"And you won't if this is how you receive them."

"No … just you." He inclined his head towards his office. "Come on."

Zechs followed the other man and stepped into a room with barren walls, a severely utilitarian desk and two steno chairs. His inner aristocrat winced. He said out loud, "Nice décor."

"I'm still moving in."

"That explains it. I've seen more personalized military bunkers."

"What are you here for, Zechs?"

"A house. On Mars," he paused. "I have some special requirements."

"Zechs, I don't build for dead men."

"I didn't know you discriminated. Why not?"

"For one, dead men don't usually have bank accounts."

"Rest assured, this one does."

He was silent for a long moment. "We also have unfinished business."

"Yes, we do," Zechs replied, his eyes idly sweeping the broad surface of the desk. They came to a rest on the unfinished chess game laid out haphazardly on the corner. He frowned. There was something not quite right with the chess pieces.

His brow creased, he tilted closer to the chessboard. "Is that … _Wing __Zero_?"

"According to the chess set maker, I'm the queen," he replied, wryly.

"Fitting," Zechs said, the corner of his mouth quirked halfway to a smile. "A pity Epyon didn't make the cut."

"I think he was turned off by you trying to destroy the Earth."

"Understandable," Zechs admitted, gruffly.

It was jarring to see the casual way he stood, his feet spaced unevenly apart, left shoulder slightly slouched. It was impossible to miss the relaxed stance of a man who he remembered as stiff, elegant and regal – who he had never seen in any setting as ordinary, as harmless as an architect's office. This Zechs Merquise didn't look like he belonged in a ballroom or behind a podium. His presence seemed muted – absent was the suppressed intensity he recalled from their conversation on Libra that had given him the impression of immediate future motion. Unlike Relena who had grown to embody a restless magnetism, Zechs seemed less than his former self. He watched Zechs' open, amused expression carefully, offhandedly noting his shorn locks.

No. Less driven by obscured motives, maybe. But not less dangerous. The man before him was finished: complete and self-contained, no longer searching and yearning for a purpose. Zechs Merquise stood as a man liberated from the guilt of wanting to be free of an impossible responsibility. He was no longer haunted by the dreams of dead ancestors nor compelled to preserve the anachronistic legacy of another time, another man. His eyes lingering on the most apparent difference, Zechs' much shorter hair, he observed, "You've changed."

"Relena says I no longer look princely," he snorted. "_Princely_."

"Can't say I ever thought of you that way."

"Women." Zechs shook his head. "Relena's idea of a Christmas present was shampoo and combs."

"Not a very subtle hint."

"She knows subtlety is wasted on me."

"You're more receptive to the bludgeoning, heavy-handed approach," he agreed, sitting down behind the desk. "Take a seat. Tell me about these special requirements."

"Secret passages. Underground vaults." Zechs sat down in one sharp, fluid movement that belied a lifetime of military training. "Your standard secret agent fare."

"I don't know what you've heard," Heero said, the tension of his alert posture loosening for the first time since he saw Zechs, as he leaned comfortably against the back of his chair, "but I'm not in the business of building secret lairs for the megalomaniacal and paranoid."

* * *

-

A/N- Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed! I've been on hiatus for so long that I never thought I'd finish this flashfic that I started almost two years ago. For me, it's very difficult to capture Zechs' character, because he spends so much of the series tortured by the legacy of his parents and the Peacecrafts. He tries the military route for revenge against his parents' killers, the political route to reestablish pacifism and then the terrorist route to effect dramatic change. He never forgets and never lets anything go. But after Endless Waltz, he finally leaves all his burdens behind, renounces his identity as Milliardo Peacecraft and finds himself in a new life on Mars. He's a new man.

In all these flashfics, I've tried to realistically, and hopefully a little humorously too, depict everyone as moving on from the war, from the past. Everyone is at peace in their own way. And Heero is also learning to move on by the changes he sees in his friends. I toyed around with the idea of going full circle and writing an epilogue from Relena's point-of-view and her observations of the newly returned Heero. Would anyone be interested?

The creative juices are finally starting to flow again and I may soon be ready to re-tackle my epic _Valhalla_. In the meantime, thank you for reading!


	7. Duty: Goodbye, Properly

Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing, which is a registered trademark of Sotsu Agency Co., LTD. TM & Sunrise & under license by Bandai.

A/N- We're at the end of the road! This is the longest flashfic I've written yet, this week for a prompt from the gw500 LJ community: "**duty**." _Goodbye, Properly _can be considered a sequel to _Mi Casa, Su Casa_;_ For Remembrance_; _Danger Dogs; __The Queen; __Some Kind of an Honor _and_ Finished Business,_ but also stands alone. Some details don't mesh exactly with the _Valhalla_ universe, but I still consider it to be an important glimpse into two of the most important characters in that story.

* * *

**Goodbye, Properly**

by Terra

* * *

It had become a weekly ritual. When the last bundle of shredded paperwork was tossed with vengeance into the trash on Friday afternoon and she was free to surrender to tantalizing thoughts of bubble baths and aromatherapy, she invariably found herself detouring from her usual way home, going instead to the outskirts of the city. As her car pulled up to the rocky footpath, she looked up at the house slowly taking form; it was such a stark contrast from the surrounding structures that pedestrians passing by found their eyes drawn unconsciously to it; every week, some gawking dog walker made her want to laugh with abandon.

Hers was the only home which wasn't trying to imitate some past palace of luxury. There were no columns, no cornices, no lavish overhangs from an earlier century; it was being built for remembrance, but its design honored only the creative faculty, the force in man that strove relentlessly forward and never looked back. As she entered, she greeted the flurry of workmen departing for the day. She found Heero leaning over a blueprint, editing a small corner with careful precision – the long, clean lines of his suspended posture as refined as one of his buildings. She liked to watch him work, enjoyed seeing his peculiar intensity travel down from his furrowed brow to the hand that drew steadily, unerringly.

It was the same way he approached everything in his life; she found it unnerving on occasion when he trained that gaze at her, like she was an engineering problem he had been struggling to solve. Some days, she marveled at the changes five years had wrought on him. He always smiled in greeting now and his dry humor never ceased to surprise her. When she had the time, it was amusing to remember how she had believed herself in love with him at fifteen when she had known nothing about the man behind the glamour. His favorite time of day (sunrise), how he took his coffee (black), his only concession to fashion (belts). "Don't they mind that you're always here?"

Heero glanced up at her with no surprise on his face. "Not always. Just on Fridays."

"You can be so blunt," she said, smiling, faintly flush. "Look at this, you're making me blush."

"You're spending too much time at work," he replied, pocketing his drafting pencil and walking to her side, "if hearing the truth is uncomfortable."

"Yes, I know. If we politicians, second only to lawyers on the scale of cosmic villainy, weren't so necessary," she quipped, a little startled to find that she needed to tilt her head to meet his eyes, "people would be drawing lots for the honor of taking off our heads." She had forgotten how tall he'd become; she barely reached over his shoulders. Looking at him now, their height difference was jarring; in her mind, he had always been incorporeal, a force of will and grit so potent that he had never seemed solid enough to be contained in something as fragile as flesh and bone.

"Still doesn't seem to stop some people."

"I wouldn't be doing my job if _someone_ didn't try to off me every year," she muffled a laugh, "it's the best gauge of public opinion really. I must be making a difference if someone's bothering to order a hit."

"That's one way to look at it."

"If I didn't look for the silver lining, I'd ask to be committed for being crazy enough to want this job."

"Are you alright?" Heero's eyes skirted over her face, lingering briefly on the stitched cut above her left eyebrow.

"Just a nasty bruise from when four quarterback-types tackled me on stage," she said lightly. "My hip may never be the same again."

"I'm sorry," he offered clumsily, hesitantly.

"Heero Yuy…you have nothing to apologize for. I'm glad you weren't there. You have a life now, a life that's your own, where you don't have to answer to anyone else. People like you," she said, touching the soft fabric of his shirt with the tips of her fingers, "are why I go to work at all. Besides, I thought you'd put your stalking days behind you."

"I never stalked," he said, his tone mildly affronted.

"Oh, don't think I never noticed you lurking around on balconies and such during my speeches. You weren't that sneaky."

"I didn't lurk."

"Fine." She rolled her eyes. "I couldn't help but notice you prowling around like the sly, terrifying super secret agent that you are."

Heero smiled faintly. "I did promise to protect you."

"And you are. You're doing something much more important. You're protecting my dream. Every day that you're here, that you draw breath, you make the duties I've chosen to bear worth it." She squeezed his hand lightly before stepping back. "Although, I did miss you when I realized that you were gone for good."

"It was time," he said, his fingers flexed in reaction to the loss of her touch, as if he hadn't expected her to let go. "I wanted my own reason to live."

"I think I knew that, but it made me feel lonely at first. Then I realized that we both needed time apart," she smiled ruefully, "for me to learn that all the hope and inspiration wouldn't disappear without you."

"And for me to be able to come back someday," he agreed, answering the question she had not asked.

At this somber turn in the conversation, her expression became woeful. "And to think I was once a little madly in love with you. Ah, the follies of youth!" she sighed dramatically. "Oh, don't pout. It's unbecoming."

"I'm not—" Heero raked his hair with bristling agitation. "You're baiting me."

"Yes," she replied solemnly. "It's the only reason I look forward to Fridays. I get to unload all the witty repartee I've been saving up all week."

"Stop trying to distract me," he warned, the rumbling admonishment in his voice diminished by the humor in his eyes. "I'm trying to say goodbye properly this time."

"I know. I saw this coming…weeks ago." At his quizzical expression, she added: "After knowing you five and my brother, I can write the handbook on tortured, self-flagellating emotionally unavailable men."

"It's not very flattering being compared to Zechs."

"How typical. I call you a tortured, emotionally unavailable man and you take exception to being grouped with my brother."

"He tried to kill me," Heero reminded her. "Practically every time we met."

"So you have a volatile relationship," she dismissed. "I remember it used to take the threat of death or blunt force trauma, at the very least, to get you to stop by."

He looked down at her then, nullifying her attempts at levity with a naked glance that made her shiver and lean unconsciously towards him in sudden longing to press against the roughness of his clothing, the cool metal of his belt, the muskiness of his nearness. "This house will be finished soon." As if in sudden realization of their proximity, but unable to move away, Heero absently glanced over her shoulder and added: "I'll probably be gone for a couple of years."

"Where will you go?"

"Dubai. To build Winner Tower."

"I'll miss you." The words tore themselves from her lips in a single breath. She had not been aware of this thought until she had spoken it. Heero turned back to her as if he had expected this admission, had been waiting for it. As they stood silent and still in the wake of her confession, she found herself listening to the unevenness of their breathing – his made audible by the curious artificiality in which he held himself, straining to remain unaffected. In that moment, she realized with that clang of finality which always accompanied sudden truths that he wasn't immune to her, and was doing just as poorly a job of hiding it.

At the fierce vulnerability in his eyes, she willed her face to give him the answer he wanted. Whatever he saw must have satisfied him. Relena heard herself saying, "Don't be a stranger. Drop me a line if you're ever in the neighborhood."

"I will," he promised.

* * *

-

A/N- A deep, heartfelt thank you to everyone who has been keeping up with this flashfic series! If you've reviewed, thank you so much. For any fanfic writer, it's impossible to overestimate the power of feedback, and constructive criticism, and it's no different for me. Well, this is the end of the "taking out the trash" series. This one blurred the line between friendship and romance a little, but only if you want to look at it that way. In my mind, Heero and Relena have always had a thermonuclear chemistry, attraction notwithstanding. I've had such a great time writing these short snippets that I'm not sure if I'm ready to give it up yet.

Right now, I'm mulling over the idea of a new flashfic series with a new theme. Because goodness knows, I need the cathartic release after I've pounded a few hours into _Valhalla_, which for those interested will resume next Tuesday, January 20th. Is there anyone out there who would be interested in more flashfics?


	8. GIFT OF THE MAGI SERIES

Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing, which is a registered trademark of Sotsu Agency Co., LTD. TM & Sunrise & under license by Bandai.

A/N- Looks like I couldn't put these flashfics down after all. This was written for the gw500 LJ community's weekly prompts; this week's prompt was "**shelter**." _Welcome Home_ can be read as a companion story to _Valhalla_, but also stands alone. This takes place about a year after Endless Waltz.

* * *

**Welcome Home**

by Terra

* * *

He wasn't even her real uncle. Just a name thief, who had the audacity to flaunt his stolen identity shamelessly. She couldn't understand their friendship. They had been on opposite sides of the war; he had played double agent not once, but twice. He had even tricked _her_. Why couldn't Une see that he was a man who couldn't be trusted? He could be counted on for only one thing: his visits were like clockwork; he came by every few months whenever he was planetside. Mariemaia was lucky if she went three months without seeing him. Most annoyingly, Une insisted that she try acting friendlier, to get to know him better. But she wouldn't be fooled. Not ever again.

"Oh, it's you," she said, staring petulantly at the man standing in the doorway. She longed to slam the door in his face, but she stepped aside to let him in, cursing her good manners and impeccable upbringing. "Une's not home yet."

Trowa stood on the steps for a long, contemplative moment, staring at her with an inscrutable expression. Finally, he asked, "May I come in?"

"It's not as if I can stop you," she retorted. "I'd rather spare Une any repair bills, if you don't mind."

As he walked in, Trowa smiled faintly, a barely noticeable quirking of his lips that belied bemusement. "What gave you the idea that I'm a brute who goes around knocking down people's doors?"

Mariemaia looked at him pointedly and said, "Gundam pilot."

"Despot," he shot back.

"Clown," she replied defiantly.

"Khushrenada," he insulted.

Turning up her nose, she immediately turned her back on him so he wouldn't see her decidedly unladylike scowl. "Sit down," she said insolently, gesturing towards the sofa once he had followed her into the parlor. "Une will be back soon."

"You still call her by her surname?" he asked, his tone politely curious.

"I don't see what business it is of yours what I call her."

"I'm making polite conversation."

"We cannot _have_ a polite conversation," she replied stiffly.

"Why is that?"

"Why is that?" she echoed in disbelief. "How can you even ask?"

"It's what people typically do when they want an answer to a question."

"You – you betrayed Une during the first war. You betrayed _me_ during the second war. Who's to say you won't do it again? I don't even understand why you keep coming here."

"I'd say it was for the company," he began casually, languidly glancing at her in a manner she felt sure was meant to convey an insult, "but I think we both know that isn't the case."

A sneaking suspicion suddenly occurred to Mariemaia. "You can't – you couldn't possibly be," her voice dropped to a horrified whisper, "_interested_ in Une."

Trowa stared at her in stunned silence and then tilted his head back and laughed with such abandon that she immediately felt a blush blossoming in her cheeks as she sat, fists clenched, throbbing with humiliation in the knowledge that her complexion probably resembled an overripe crustacean. She muttered, "It isn't that funny."

"You're right. I'm sorry." Trowa smiled at her then, unguarded and open, carefree in a way that suddenly included her. At her startled look, he continued: "Don't look so shocked. Even Gundam pilots can be sorry."

"It's because…" she said, hesitating, "if I didn't call her Une then I would have to call her—" she broke off.

"Mother?" he suggested.

She ignored him. "Just so we're clear. You're not good enough for her."

"You're still worried about that? Even if I did feel that way about her, I wouldn't be stealing her away from you," he said shrewdly, implying that he knew exactly what she feared most.

She tilted her chin upwards to meet his eyes. "I wasn't worried about that. I just don't want her to get hurt."

"This might disappoint you, Mariemaia, but we're not having some torrid affair. I'm technically still a Preventer even if I'm not on active duty. I only come here to report in."

"Oh," she said, flushing a vibrant red, feeling like a fool for jumping to conclusions.

He paused for a moment before saying: "And to check up on you."

Mariemaia looked at him, confusion etched on her face. "Why would you do that?"

"I feel – I've always felt a little responsible for you," he admitted. Watching her stare up at him in bewilderment, Trowa added: "I knew your uncle."

"My…uncle," she repeated.

"Before he died, he showed me a picture of you. For some reason, I kept it." He reached into his pocket and took out a small photograph. "I've been waiting for the right time to return it."

As she reached for the photo he held out, she could feel a change in the air, a sudden proximity that didn't exist before. This man, who had once been an enemy, and was now a stranger, had made the first move – had, in fact, made it months ago – and now he was leaving it up to her to decide what would happen next. She looked down at the picture, absently noting her own smiling face and then realized abruptly that she couldn't remember when she had last laughed so freely. She turned to scrutinize her mother's face. Leia Barton had been so beautiful, her features equally delicate and kind.

Until that moment, Mariemaia hadn't understood just how much time had stripped her memories. How much of her mother years had robbed from her. She felt a rush of shame roaring in her ears and some small remnant of who she had been railed inside her, shouting that she could not show this man how weak she was, how close she was to tears. She managed to choke out, "Thank you. I didn't – I would never have expected this from you."

"Happy birthday," he answered gently. Then he reached into his bag and pulled out a deformed balloon animal.

"Is that…a Serpent?" she asked, incredulous.

"I ran out of rocks," he responded cryptically.

Une came home that night to her adopted daughter laughing hysterically while Trowa Barton made her balloon animals. Mariemaia looked up to see Une standing in the doorway with an amused expression and she managed, in between giggles, to say, "Welcome home!"

Home, Mariemaia realized as she gazed up at the woman she trusted absolutely, was the scent of burnt cookie dough whenever Une tried to bake, a firm grip when she stumbled during the months of her rehabilitation, the Chinese takeout containers strewn everywhere and the shelter of arms that would never let her fall again.

Welcome home, indeed.

* * *

-

A/N- Who else is tired of Mariemaia being portrayed either as an adult or a little brat? I know I am. So, I thought I'd go for a more middle-of-the-road approach. By the way, there's a passing reference in here to _The Queen_, a flashfic I wrote earlier for my _Taking Out the Trash _series. Did anyone catch it? This is the beginning of a new arc of ficlets which I'm calling the _Gift of the Magi_ series. Each week, someone will be receiving an unexpected gift that'll be just what he or she needs. Let me know what you think about this one. Mariemaia's a pretty tough character to capture. Thank you for reading!


	9. Cap: Confessions in an Ink Blot

Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing, which is a registered trademark of Sotsu Agency Co., LTD. TM & Sunrise & under license by Bandai.

A/N- The second entry in the _Gift of the Magi_ flashfic series! This was written for the gw500 LJ community's weekly prompts; this week's prompt was "**cap**." _Confessions in a Blot_ can be read as a thematic companion to _Welcome Home_, but also stands alone.

* * *

**Confessions in an Ink Blot**

by Terra

* * *

She first notices it in the way he signs his name – all elegant pen strokes and curvy letters, as if he has to remind himself not to draw Chinese characters. He always writes with the same fancy fountain pen and grips it carefully like printing his name is an offering or a tribute. His signature is impeccable; like the man, it's pristine and precise. But the pen's ostentatious golden tip and jade sheath puzzle her; it doesn't fit his frugal, no-nonsense nature. On Thursday morning, Sally notices something odd about the requisition form he has just handed her. It takes a minute to realize that instead of "Chang," she sees a blot: an inky blot masquerading as his family name. And he has made no effort to correct it.

When she returns to their adjoining desks fully prepared to tease him, Wufei gives her a perfunctory glance, which she knows means he is thinking. She says nothing. By Monday afternoon, she can barely make out "Wu" from the splatter that has become his new signature. When on Wednesday, a report is returned to her desk because the signature is illegible, she finally tells him: "There's something wrong with your pen."

Turning from his computer, Wufei gives her a look that suggests he finds her observation inane. "It's the feed. It's causing my pen to leak."

"Come again?"

"The feed," he repeats. "It's the part that lets the ink through to the point of the pen. Mine is broken so it leaks."

"Wufei, I know you think Earth mechanics aren't worth the grease on their shirts," she deadpans, "but even _they_ can handle pens."

"It isn't mine to fix."

"What do you mean it isn't yours? I've seen you using that pen for years." A thought makes her laugh. "Or have you been hiding your secret identity as Wufei: professional pen thief," she intones in a broadcaster voice, "all these years?"

She isn't sure but she thinks he glared at her. "It belonged to my wife," replies Wufei stiffly.

Sally is certain she didn't hear that right. "I'm sorry. Did you just say your _wife_?" she asks incredulously. Immediately, she starts looking around like maybe he's hiding her under his desk or he's been romancing the mailroom girl under her nose.

Wufei looks affronted at her tone. "Why is it so hard to believe that I've been married?"

"Are we talking drunken Vegas quickie or I-may-die-in-this-war-honey-let's-get-hitched?"

"It was an arranged marriage," he answers, scowling.

"That explains it." Sally nods sagaciously. "Elders put her up to it, I expect."

"I don't know why I'm trying to explain this to you. I'm just giving you more material."

"Wufei, I hate to dispel whatever illusions you may have but you don't need to _try_ to give me material. You're a natural," she says cheekily at his stormy expression. Even after three years, she can still make him prickly; she considers it a badge of pride. She looks at him pointedly when he falls into disgruntled silence.

"Her name was Meilan," he finally says. "She was also a Chang. We were fourteen."

"Smart," she quips. "Get 'em while they don't know any better. Why did she give you a fancy pen?"

"She didn't. It's the only thing I have that was hers. I think she kept it around as an insult. She thought I was weak for being a scholar and refusing to fight."

"Feisty," she notes approvingly. "What happened to her?"

"She died in my place when OZ attacked," responds Wufei flatly. "She saved my life."

"Oh," she says, startled. "I'm sorry. I didn't know." But she really should have, she thinks, because she knows his clan chose to self-destruct rather than surrender to OZ. He is probably the last member of the Long Clan. She knows how lonely being the last of anything is and she chides herself for taking a joke too far.

"She's the real Nataku," he continues, ignoring her apology. "She made me stop sitting on my laurels and do something. She taught me what it meant to fight. To fight for justice."

"You honor her memory when you sign your family name with that pen," she realizes suddenly.

"Yes. It isn't mine to fix." When she protests, he adds: "Or yours."

Watching him turn back to his computer, she knows the conversation is over. But it remains in her thoughts for the rest of the day and when work is over and she is sitting at her desk at home looking at her own collection of unused fountain pens, she decides that maybe it isn't over.

"This isn't pity," says Sally when he opens his front door and she hands him a pen cap.

Wufei stares at the pen cap blankly. "When I said the feed was broken, I meant – not the cap."

"I know," she replies. "But now it's no longer hers. It's part hers and part mine. And I say, let's go. We're going to get it fixed. Then it'll be _our_ pen."

"I didn't want you to do this," he reminds her with a pained expression.

"I know. But I'm a meddler," she informs him, smiling. "It's what I do. I meddle."

At the determined look on her face, he mutters something under his breath about "that woman" and "can't win" but he reaches for his coat on the rack. He pulls out his fountain pen from the inner pocket and pops its cap off. Then he steps willingly out of his apartment with her and Sally watches as he casually slips her cap on. That's when she knows she did the right thing.

Because sometimes, the things we don't want are the things we need most.

* * *

-

A/N- I've been itching to write a Wufei-and-Sally friendship piece for a while now. This was also an exercise in writing in the present tense. I'm sorry if it came off stiff; it's the first time I've tried it. I'm not sure how many installments this _Gift of the Magi_ series will have but in the vein of O. Henry's famous short story, someone will be receiving an unexpected gift every week that will turn out to be just what he or she needed. Thank you for reading!


	10. Pet: The Pitfalls of Eavesdropping

Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing, which is a registered trademark of Sotsu Agency Co., LTD. TM & Sunrise & under license by Bandai.

A/N- Welcome to the third installment in the _Gift of the Magi_ flashfic series! This was written for the gw500 LJ community's weekly prompts; this week's prompt was "**pet**." _The Pitfalls of Eavesdropping _can be read as a thematic companion to _Welcome Home _and _Confessions in an Ink Blot_, but also stands alone.

* * *

**The Pitfalls of Eavesdropping**

by Terra

* * *

It was just before sunrise when he suddenly awoke. Wrenching open his eyes, Zechs remained still, staring up at the ceiling for one, two, three thudding heartbeats before he convinced himself it wasn't a dream. He had heard Noin's voice, drifting into the bedroom from outside, declaring: "I don't know how much more of this I can take, Relena."

"Living together with Zechs is tough enough without having to worry about him, too. You know — he doesn't let me out of his sight. He follows me everywhere," continued Noin's disgruntled voice. "Just look at me. It's afternoon for you but the sun hasn't even risen over here yet. He kept thrashing around and now I'm sneaking off to make whiny phone calls."

Zechs bristled. He could remember letting Noin out of his sight just that morning. He wasn't _always _covertly spying or eavesdropping on her. "He doesn't respect any boundaries, either," she was saying, "and then I get annoyed and snappy and you know how moody that makes Zechs. He has good and bad days. If I'm lucky, all he does is mope around the house on the bad ones, getting on everyone's nerves."

He frowned. He did not _mope_. Grown men – like him, he mentally added – did _not_ mope. He and Noin were going to talk, he vowed. Since when did Noin prefer to confide in his sister over him? Their shanty only had four rooms; Relena was millions of miles away but _he_ was literally a shout away most of the time.

He heard Noin laugh. "Then there's Zechs mouthing off about this and that godforsaken planet," she paused as she listened to Relena's response, "well — that's true. I know I should be more patient; it can't be easy for from him to adjust to this environment. But I'm not a saint. I just want to hit him with a newspaper sometimes," he could hear the smile in her voice, "but that's probably abuse, right?"

He stiffened. He was so impossible to live with that Noin wanted to hit him? True, he remembered complaining on occasion when his anonymity frustrated him. He missed the efficiency of the old days now that he was only a rank-and-file employee, hiding out on a backwater Martian settlement with the rest of Earth's refugees and dregs of society. But dead men couldn't issue orders and expect them to be obeyed.

"I know — I know. I should train him. Make him better-behaved. Work my womanly wiles or some such."

Zechs slammed open the bedroom door. "Listen here," he said. "No one is _training_ me to be—" he cut himself off when Noin looked up from the vidphone, startled, her eyes wide. Her hand froze from lazily petting Lightning Count, their frequently misbehaved wolfhound, and her housewarming gift for him, who watched them with sleepy eyes from her lap.

"Never mind," he muttered. "Carry on."

Zechs slammed the door shut and hoped that she hadn't seen his face. Grown men did _not _blush.

* * *

-

A/N- Exactly 500 words! And it sure wasn't easy paring it down to that length. Well, it is the gw_500_ community. It's about time I started following the rules. As always, I look forward to any comments and constructive criticisms you want to share. Thanks so much for reading!


	11. Change: Serendipity

Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing, which is a registered trademark of Sotsu Agency Co., LTD. TM & Sunrise & under license by Bandai.

A/N- The fourth and penultimate installment of the _Gift of the Magi_ flashfic series! This was written for the gw500 LJ community's weekly prompts; this week's prompt was "**change**." _Serendipity _can be read as the thematic sequel to _Welcome Home,_ _Confessions in a Ink Blot _and _The Pitfalls of Eavesdropping_, but also stands alone.

* * *

**Serendipity**

by Terra

* * *

One hundred and eighty-seven credits. That was all. And sixty credits of it were in singles. Credits saved one and two at a time by clipping coupons at the supermarket and skipping lunch. Three times she counted it. But it was no use; she only had one hundred and eighty-seven credits to buy Duo a present. And Christmas was the next day. There was clearly nothing to do but stand in the junkyard and howl over the noise of the car crusher. So Hilde did it. With a great deal of stomping and cursing.

For months, she had saved. Scrimping for spare change from every junk deal, skimming the accounts after every major scrap trade, hitting the markets bright and early for used parts. And what did she have to show for it? Nothing. There was _nothing _she could buy for one hundred and eighty-seven credits that was worthy of her best friend of three years. She had always known – was too smart not to know – that scavengers made a hard living. But that didn't stop Hilde from pouring her life savings into their scrapyard on L2 where real estate didn't come cheap.

She walked morosely into the garage, kicking sullenly at the loose nails on the ground, when suddenly inspiration struck her. There were two possessions in the Schbeiker-Maxwell household that were their pride and joy. One was Duo's platinum cross, an heirloom from Father Maxwell and the church's most valuable asset – precious metals being extremely rare in space. If only it didn't have to hang from a tattered string around Duo's neck.

The other was Hilde's motorbike. It was cobbled together from hundreds of used parts but it was their most beautiful, state-of-the-art piece of equipment – the product of love and hundreds of hours of sweat, grease and tinkering. That made it the envy of every local moto-racer. Hilde stood in their garage and stared hard at her gleaming motorbike. Before she could change her mind, she grimly dialed the number of the last racer who had been interested.

"Three thousand credits," he said when he arrived, examining the engine with a practiced hand. He gave her a curious look. "You sure you want to let this beauty go?"

"Never mind that. Give it to me quick," said Hilde.

Within half an hour, the sale was final and she was scouring the stores for the perfect present. She found it at last in a dusty case in the back of a small antique jeweler. She could imagine someone made it specifically for Duo. It was a platinum chain, elegant in its simplicity, weaved delicately by hand, with a value made obvious by its lack of ostentation. It was even worthy of The Cross. As soon as she saw it, she knew Duo was meant to have it. It was exactly like him. Deceptively straightforward in design but intricate and complex upon a closer examination of its constituent links and loops; the metal didn't just shine, it glowed under the lamplight like a halo, each ring melting into the next in one continuous unit.

Three thousand and one hundred credits they took from her for it. But she had no regrets. With that chain on his cross, Duo could properly honor the only home he had ever known. Hilde hurried back to their trailer and was anxiously sipping a cup of coffee when the door creaked open and Duo stepped inside, dusty and exhausted from a salvage mission. His eyes bore into Hilde with an expression that she couldn't read, which surprised and terrified her. "I just came from the garage," he said. "Your bike is missing."

"It's not missing. I sold it. Don't look at me that way! I'll be darned if I go through another Christmas without giving you a present. And I can always build another one," reassured Hilde hastily. "You don't mind, do you? Just wait. You haven't seen the beautiful gift I got you."

She watched his face change and it was not surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the emotions she had been prepared for. He simply looked at her with a peculiar stiffness in his face. "You sold it?" asked Duo slowly, disbelievingly; despite seeing and hearing the evidence.

"Sold and gone to the highest bidder," she confirmed.

Duo looked around the room curiously. "It's gone, you say?" he repeated with a bewildered air.

"Why are you looking around? I'm telling you it's been shipped off. The buyer came by this afternoon. Come on, it's Christmas Eve. Duo...have some sympathy. It was my baby. But I don't mind so much. Because I did it for you."

"For me?"

"Yeah. But call me sentimental or girly and I'll bash your head in with a screwdriver," she threatened.

Duo laughed, his face lit up with humor, and took her arm, leading her outside to the garage. "Come with me. You'll see why you had me stunned."

When the garage doors rolled up, she screamed in joy. There sat The Engine – the finest mechanical specimen she had ever seen, had worshipped long and fierce without any hope of ownership. And now, it was hers! But the shell that it should have inhabited was gone, _sold_. She said quickly, "I'll build another one. Don't worry." Hilde reached into her pocket, eyes wide with anticipation, and added: "Wait until you see this!"

She held it out to him. The chain shone brightly in the palm of her hand, trembling with her enthusiasm. "Give me your cross. I want to see how it looks on it."

When Duo saw the chain, he chuckled and reached out to curl her fingers back around it. He draped his arm around her shoulders and walked them back to their trailer, humming softly. At her hurt look, he said, "Listen Hilde, let's put the presents away and keep 'em for a while. They're too nice to give right now."

"What do you mean," Hilde faltered, "too nice?"

"I sold the cross to get the money to buy your engine," he replied nonchalantly. "Now suppose we fire up the grill and have ourselves a Christmas barbecue."

* * *

-

A/N- Based on the heartwarming short story, "The Gift of the Magi" by O. Henry. This idea was the original inspiration for this little flashfic series. I think it's safe to say that _Serendipity_ is the second to last in this sequence. A new series soon! Thanks for reading!


	12. Blood: A Place in History

Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing, which is a registered trademark of Sotsu Agency Co., LTD. TM & Sunrise & under license by Bandai.

A/N- The final entry in the _Gift of the Magi _flashfic series! This was written for the gw500 LJ community's weekly prompts; this week's prompt was "**blood**." _A Place in History_ can be read as a sequel to _Welcome Home _and is the thematic companion to _Confessions in an Inkblot_, _The Pitfalls of Eavesdropping _and _Serendipity_, but also stands alone_._

* * *

**A Place in History**

by Terra

* * *

"No," said Trowa flatly.

"But Cathy gave me lessons!"

"That's exactly why I'm putting my foot down."

Mariemaia pouted. She didn't see why he had to be so unreasonable. She'd clocked in a dozen hours at the target range with Cathy. She was an excellent knife-thrower! _For her age_, she silently amended. Clearly, it was time to bring out the big guns in this negotiation. She looked Trowa squarely in the eye, flung her shoulders back and said defiantly: "I'll call you uncle."

She winced in sympathy when she saw the muscles in his face clench as he gritted his teeth, swallowing the retort that she knew he was dying to say. Finally, Trowa managed: "That's low. Even for you."

Mariemaia pointed at herself. "Khushrenada."

"Exactly. Not sure I want anyone knowing we're blood-related," he replied.

Her mouth fell open in a manner she was sure qualified as gawking and unattractive. Why was it that her womanly graces always abandoned her whenever she was in his company? She fumed. "Well, that's too bad because I am heretofore adopting you!"

Trowa's lips quirked. "You're adopting me?"

"That's right. I'm going to tell everyone you have a sociopathic would-be dictator in your family tree and there's nothing you can do about it."

"I'll tell Une you're back to blackmailing people into submission."

"You wouldn't!" Mariemaia's eyes widened. "She exiled me to Siberia last time someone tattled on me."

"She sent you to stay with your great-aunt Mildred," said Trowa, puzzled.

"Exactly. Do you know how many cats that woman has? I was the most human contact she'd had in a decade."

"Made you bathe her cats, didn't she?" he asked knowingly.

"I've repressed it," she said, shuddering. "You're not helping."

"It doesn't matter who you threaten, manipulate or blackmail – I am _not_ letting you throw knives at me in tonight's show."

A vicious smile curved across her face. "You're scared! The big, hulking Gundam pilot is scared of a ninety-pound girl."

"Damn right I'm scared," he retorted. Frowning, he added: "I do not _hulk_."

Mariemaia pleaded, "I've been trained by the best. This won't be like that time I set your trailer on fire. I promise!"

"Wait," he held his hand up to silence her, "that was you? After you swore up and down to me you were in a different country at the time?"

"Um…it isn't what you think." Mariemaia slowly backed away as he loomed over her. She squeaked, "You're doing the hulking thing!"

His hands fell heavily on her shoulders, preventing her from fleeing, his eyes promising retribution, Trowa said darkly, "Little niece, you haven't seen hulking."

That night, Mariemaia found herself warming up the crowd before the show began. She screamed as the platform beneath her collapsed, dunking her in the water. Scowling, she climbed out of the tank, silently wailing as another child lobbed a ball with deadly accuracy at the target. _At least she had a place in history_, Mariemaia thought, _as the Bloom Circus's first dunking booth_. The trick was to look on the bright side: at least she was in the spotlight. Catching a glimpse of Trowa standing backstage smirking at her, she tried to school her face into an appropriate expression of humility and defeat.

But he'd better watch his back. Hell hath no fury like a clown's niece scorned.

* * *

-

A/N- Coming full circle from _Welcome Home_, this is the last installment of the _Gift of the Magi _series! I hope this was as much fun to read as it was for me to write. My next sequence of flashfics will be the _Games People Play _series: all's fair in love and war...and everything in-between. Thank you for reading!


	13. GAMES PEOPLE PLAY SERIES

Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing, which is a registered trademark of Sotsu Agency Co., LTD. TM & Sunrise & under license by Bandai.

A/N- The beginning of the _Games People Play_ series! Wherein every week: all's fair in love and war...and everything in-between. This was written for the gw500 LJ community's weekly prompts; this week's prompt was "**friendship**."

* * *

**Ladies' Gambit**

by Terra

* * *

"Put your money where your mouth is," challenged Dorothy, spreading her cards facedown on the table.

"I'm almost out of chips." Relena frowned. "Spot me? You know I'm good for it."

"No," she shook her head dramatically, "I don't know any such thing. I remember the last time you sprinted off in the middle of game – which you were also losing – making an excuse about a diplomatic something or other."

"Ladies," said Duo, admonishing.

Relena asked incredulously, "Are you talking about when that terrorist tried to blow up the president?"

"Well – whatever it was. Now, the facts are these. You've been bleeding chips all game. Time to fold, I think?"

"Never!" she declared. "Dorothy, if I lost to you, I couldn't ever look myself in the mirror again."

"Ladies," he tried again.

Her slate blue eyes swept up and down Relena's form. "Why would you ever want to in the first place?"

"That's it! I'm throwing down. All in!"

"Ladies!" interrupted Duo, looking desperately from one woman to the other. "I can't deal if—"

"By all means, make a fool of yourself. This game of blackjack will haunt you forever. Dealer! You'd better be all in, too," declared Dorothy.

Duo protested: "Wait a min—"

"He's scared." said Relena, laughing. "Look Dorothy, the great vaunted gambler's scared of us."

She pinned him with a disdainful glance. "What happened to all that swagger? All those boasts about never losing?"

"You're taking my words out of context—"

Dorothy turned to the other woman. "What was it he said? Something about the devil's luck?"

"Oh, yes. I believe his exact words were, 'I've never lost a game of blackjack,''' said Relena solemnly. "And Duo never lies, does he?"

When they both trained accusing looks at him, Duo threw up his hands in defeat. "All right – you've got me. I'm all in." He flipped over his cards: four, seven, jack. "And that's a twenty. Show 'em, ladies."

Dorothy turned over a four, then a king. She smiled at Duo wickedly before revealing her final card: a nine. Duo shot her a confused look. "You went bust? I thought you had blackjack…" he trailed off.

Relena coughed. "I believe you're forgetting me." She threw her cards triumphantly on the table: eight, five, seven…and ace. "That's twenty-one!" she announced.

Duo's mouth fell open. "You two played me," he said, stunned, "but – but I thought you were rivals—"

"Whatever gave you that idea?" asked Dorothy airily, scooping up the winnings, splitting it into two piles. "We're the best of friends."

Her best friend hid a smile behind her hand. She didn't hesitate to pocket her share of the loot. When Duo groaned at the amount of money changing hands, Dorothy added: "Don't bother. That ship has sailed."

"Relena!" he appealed, his luminous blue eyes boring into hers. He tried for his best victimized, kicked-puppy look; he knew she was a sap for such things.

"I'm sorry, Duo. Chicks before—" Relena blushed, "well…you know."

* * *

-

A/N- I always loved the chemistry between Relena and Dorothy in the series so I had a lot of fun pitting them together against Duo. I loved writing this little flashfic. I hope you enjoyed nearly as much as I liked writing it. Thank you for reading!


	14. Ball: Hoodwinked

Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing, which is a registered trademark of Sotsu Agency Co., LTD. TM & Sunrise & under license by Bandai.

A/N- The second installment of the _Games People Play_ flashfic series! This was written for the gw500 LJ community's weekly prompts; this week's prompt was "**ball**." _Hoodwinked_ can be read as a thematic companion to _Ladies' Gambit_, but also stands alone.

* * *

**Hoodwinked**

by Terra

* * *

"Tell me again," said Trowa as another elevator flew by his head, narrowly missing decapitating him by a breath, "why this was a good idea."

From below him, hanging just as precariously on the rungs of the elevator shaft, Duo muttered: "Well, you don't seriously want a ball-and-chain calling you daddy for the rest of your life, do you? I find this Middie character's story very suspect."

"She's a lovely girl," he protested.

"You've known her less than seventy-two hours."

"Not true. We met before the war."

"Again, for less than seventy-two hours. So altogether, you've known this girl a whopping six days. That's got to be a new record as far as your relationships go." Duo rolled his eyes even though he knew Trowa couldn't see him. "What a great foundation on which to be raising a kid."

Trowa frowned. "That doesn't explain why we can't use the stairs like normal – hell even _subnormal_ – people."

"Told ya, can't risk being caught on tape. Trust me, I know these things. Now climb!"

Trowa sighed, grunting until he reached the next rung. He started the slow, torturous ascent to the eightieth floor. When he felt like his arms would be ripped out of their sockets, he finally saw "eighty" printed in white block letters. "Finally!" he shouted down. "This is it."

He jammed the metal tool Duo gave him into the slit between the elevator doors and pried them open. He sincerely hoped no one would call for an elevator anytime soon. He balanced himself on the ledge and started pulling the doors open; Duo climbed onto the opposite side and together they put their weight into their heaves until there was a small enough opening for Duo to slip in. He slid the metal rod between the gap and the doors stayed open.

He told Trowa as he helped him through: "I blacked out the cameras in this hallway only. We've got to hurry. Remember, she's an Alliance superspy. We can't be too careful."

Trowa patrolled the halls while Duo picked the lock on Middie's hotel suite. "All right, we're in!" he whispered. They entered the dark room quietly, turning on their flashlights. Duo pointed at the bedroom and Trowa nodded. They cautiously walked in. Duo made his way to the bed while Trowa looked in her half-open closet. He rooted through hangers of dresses and shirts until he found an unmarked shoebox buried under her clothes in the laundry basket. Gripping the flashlight with his teeth, he slowly opened it, making a mental note to replace the single strand of hair that fell out.

Nestled inside was a pair of ballet flats wrapped in tissue paper. He pulled them out to uncover a plain hardbound book. He flipped it open and a thrill ran through him as he recognized the looping handwriting; it was her diary. He speed-read, searching its contents for his name. He found it in an entry dated a year ago: "I thought I saw No-Name today. But it was just some guy in a raincoat. I felt like a fool running after a stranger like that. Maybe it's the rain. It was starting to rain that day he left me," he read silently.

He turned a few more pages; an entry from a month ago: "It's the green eyes. That's what always gets me. Some guy tried to pick me up at a bar and I was about to say no but then I got a closer look and his eyes were the exact same shade of green as No-Name's. Is it pathetic that I'm still searching for him in every man I meet?"

Three days ago: "I'm still in shock. What are the chances that of all the people in the Earth Sphere, I'd be assigned HIM as my Preventers contact? It's got to be fate, right? There I was waiting at the meet point with the package and he starts walking towards me. I think I'm hallucinating him like all those other times when he wasn't really there. This is the part where I usually wake up but even though I kept rubbing my eyes, he didn't stop coming. To think that his first words to me would be, 'Is there something wrong with your eyes?' I nearly said 'yes.'"

Trowa's eyes widened when he found yesterday's entry: "I _knew _we should've been more careful. That stupid stick keeps flashing a plus. Oh god oh god oh god. I nicked Trowa with scissors and got enough blood to take a paternity test. Stupid doctor tells me it's his it's his it's his. WHAT DO I DO? He doesn't trust me. Not fully. I can tell in the way he looks at me. What if he doesn't believe me?" He slammed the journal shut. He'd read enough. Hearing Duo shuffling behind him, he carefully replaced the book and wedged her hair under the lid.

He put it back in her laundry basket and aimed his flashlight at his friend. Trowa murmured: "Come on. We got what we came for."

"Yeah? You find her diary or something?"

"Something," he answered.

"All right," said Duo, shrugging. "Let's get out of here before—"

Trowa started when the lights suddenly flickered on. Middie stood in the doorway, her hand on her hip, a furious expression on her face. "What do you think you're doing?" she seethed.

Duo stammered: "I – we…that is—"

"Middie," said Trowa. "It's my fault. I wasn't sure I could trust you." He closed the distance between them and engulfed her slim frame in his arms. "Now I know I can."

It was just as well that he didn't see Middie winking at Duo over his shoulder or the thumbs-up his friend returned.

* * *

-

A/N- I thought it was spelled Midii Une for the longest time but the official translation is indeed 'Middie.' Ah, the elusive Middie Une works her charms on unsuspecting Trowa...and snares Duo along for the ride, too. Comments? Constructive criticism? Sound off below. Thank you for reading!


	15. Will: Where There's a Will

Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing, which is a registered trademark of Sotsu Agency Co., LTD. TM & Sunrise & under license by Bandai.

A/N- Here's the third entry in the _Games People Play_ flashfic series! This was written for the gw500 LJ community's weekly prompts; this week's prompt was "**will**." _Where There's a Will _can be read as a thematic companion to _Ladies' Gambit _and _Hoodwinked_, but also stands alone.

* * *

**Where There's a Will**

by Terra

* * *

When Catherine walked into the brightly lit offices of Ichiya, Zweiner & Sanders, she did so with apprehension and not too little anxiety. What was it Quatre needed so badly from her that she couldn't even tell Trowa about it? The receptionist looked up disinterestedly and instructed her to sit in the waiting room. Parking herself on one of the steelback chairs, Catherine fished her Blueberry out of her purse, scrolling to the right screen. There it was again: _There is a matter of some delicacy that I urgently need your help with. There's no time to tell Trowa all the particulars. Can you meet me at the offices of Ichiya, Zweiner & Sanders? I've attached a map._

"Miss Bloom?" inquired a polite, mechanical voice above her head.

"Yes?" she fairly squeaked. "That's me."

"Please follow me," said a prim young woman in a pencil skirt. For a fleeting second, Catherine thought she caught a look of disapproval in the secretary's eyes. Then the moment passed and she chalked it up to her overactive imagination.

The rhythmic clacks of the secretary's heels echoed in the hallway and Catherine cringed at her every step. Finally, they stopped in front of mahogany double-doors and the secretary pulled the gold handles, revealing Quatre hunched over at one end of a conference table and three older men in snappy suits on the other. One of them was looking impatiently at his watch. When the secretary ushered Catherine in before slamming the doors behind her, Quatre stood up so quickly, his chair fell over. "Cathy!" he cried. "You had me worried that you wouldn't make it."

"Um, well, I'm here," she smiled weakly. "Why—"

"Gentlemen," interrupted Quatre, rushing over to her, slinging one arm over her shoulders and snatching her hand in his. She felt something cold touch her finger. "Meet my fiancé, Catherine Bloom."

"Wha—" she gaped at him. He held her hand up and she suddenly saw that he had slipped a ring on her while she was distracted.

"I know we wanted to keep our relationship a secret, darling," he soothed, "but isn't it about time we shared the good news with everyone?"

Quatre squeezed her hand and his eyes shifted in that play-along way that she'd come to recognize from the long line of sleazy conmen she'd dated. She had learned the hard way that a constant on-the-road circus life wasn't conducive to steady relationships. Catherine gritted her teeth. "Yes...of course, _muffin_. You know I was only worried about your reputation."

"My repu—?"

Catherine tossed her head back and smiled at the men casting her puzzled looks. "He knocked me up – and then he proposed. A real romantic, ain't he?"

"Is this true?" asked the man who had peered at his watch impatiently.

"I – I," stuttered Quatre.

"It's a little too late to be denying paternity now, my little kitty-cat," purred Catherine. "Not with this sparkler on my hand."

"Y-yes, that's right, Mr. Sanders. We are expecting," he cleared his throat, "the joy of being parents soon."

"If it's a boy, we're thinking of naming him Chuggy – after that darlin' bar where we met, ain't that so, cupcake?" said Catherine, grinning stupidly, staring vacantly up at him. "My knight in shining Armani here rescued me from the topless life."

"D-darling, that's certainly something we should discuss at home," sputtered Quatre.

Catherine pouted, "Oh, you're just a crashing bore, aren't you?" She flipped her hair the same way she had seen countless bimbos do it in front of Trowa. At Quatre's panicked expression, she wondered briefly if she was laying it on too thick. Then she ruthlessly quashed any feelings of guilt. Just who had lured whom into a trap under false pretences?

"I see. In that case, all conditions of your father's will are met and upon confirmation of your marriage tomorrow, your trust fund and all his assets will be transferred to your name," said Mr. Sanders, rising to pile the stack of papers into his briefcase. He signaled his men to follow. Before he exited the room, he scrutinized Catherine and said sternly, "My dear, I trust you understand that marriage is not something to be undertaken lightly. The will is very clear on this. If your marriage doesn't last for at least three years then all assets automatically revert back to Mr. Winner's father's original wishes."

Catherine frowned. "What are his original wishes?"

"That the entire Winner fortune be distributed piecemeal among the population of the Earth Sphere."

"Oh. That's…generous of him."

Quatre sighed, rubbing his temples. "Tell her how much that would amount to per person."

"70.83 credits at today's conversion rates."

"That's like one trip to the grocery store," she said, grimacing. "Nice. But what a waste of all that money!"

"My sentiments exactly," agreed Quatre.

Mr. Sanders nodded and his goons closed the door behind him. As soon as she was sure they were out of earshot, she yelled, "Quatre Raberba Winner! What the hell was that?!"

He flinched. "Well, you see – today was the reading of my father's will and he had – he had a caveat I didn't expect."

"Explain yourself," she fumed.

"If I don't get married on my twenty-first birthday, all my assets will be stripped and donated to…well, everyone. He didn't get a chance to change his will before he passed so it was made while he was under the impression I was out warmongering. I'm guessing this was meant to be incentive for me to become a responsible adult. My father didn't want me to marry just for the money so no one told me about this condition until today – and my birthday's tomorrow."

She frowned and held up her hand. "That doesn't explain this ring."

Quatre blushed. "I bribed that nice girl at the front desk."

"Regardless," she said, poking him in the chest. "I am not getting married to you!"

"Cathy, I'm sorry. I was desperate. I knew you were in town and your name was the first one that came to mind." He paused. "You aren't _really_ pregnant, are you?"

"You idiot!" She threw the ring at him and stalked to the door, flinging it open. She heard him calling after her: "Is that a yes?"

* * *

-

A/N- I had so much fun writing Catherine's voice in this one. I always thought Catherine and Quatre would make such a fun couple. Who's with me? Did anyone catch the play on numbers in the company name? And for those waiting on _Valhalla_, sorry, no update this week. I offer you this flashfic instead! The latest chapter is a monster length-wise but I'd rather not snip it into two parts this time so I'll be posting it next Tuesday. Thank you for reading!


	16. Ship: Wing, a Commentary

Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing, which is a registered trademark of Sotsu Agency Co., LTD. TM & Sunrise & under license by Bandai.

A/N- The fourth part of the _Games People Play_ flashfic series! This was written for the gw500 LJ community's weekly prompts; this week's prompt was "**ship**." _Wing, a Commentary_ can be read as the thematic sequel to _Ladies' Gambit,_ _Hoodwinked _and _Where There's a Will_, but also stands alone.

* * *

**Wing, a Commentary**

by Terra

* * *

"Who do you ship, Heero?" asked Relena offhandedly, resting on her elbows on the bed, idly leafing through the hotel entertainment guide.

Heero slid out from under the bed, concluding his sweep of the room. "Who do I what?"

"Ship," she repeated. "What's your OTP?"

"My _what_?"

"Your one true pairing," she said, shooting him a strange look. "Do you live in a vacuum? What's your favorite relation_ship_ on Wing?"

"Wing?" asked Heero, bewildered.

"The live-action drama they're making about the war! God, you _have_ been living under a rock."

"Relena," he said, "I've been stationed in the asteroid belt for six months."

"Oh. Right then," she coughed, blushing, an apologetic smile stretching her lips. She continued brightly: "So, they've got this up-and-coming hunk playing you and this dreamboat playing Duo. The fangirls are crazy about shipping the two of you together."

"Me and Duo?" he said slowly.

"Yes." Her expression took on a distant, dreamy look. "It's kind of hot actually."

"Me and _Duo_?" he asked, outraged.

"Then there's the cutie playing Quatre. The chemistry between him and the actor for Trowa is _intense_. That scene where he gets out of Heavyarms with his hands in the air and Quatre just _looks_ at him? Talk about steamy!" Relena sighed. "And the latest episode has them meeting up in the desert for," she smiled, "well, who knows what really—"

Heero held up his hand to silence her. "Stop. Stop right there. Are you telling me that this – this fictional garbage is a popular show?"

"Popular? It's the single most-watched show on the air every week."

"And — _Wing_," he said, disgusted, "is about our relationships?"

"Yes. There's hot, steamy eyesex going on every week," she answered, grinning.

"Eye—" he cut himself off, stunned. Clearing his throat, he tried again: "This show's creators know that we were fighting a _war_, right? There wasn't any time for relationships," he said _relationships_ like it was a venereal disease, "and we barely saw each other outside combat."

"Well, of course." Relena rolled her eyes. "You and I know that, but that's why it's _fiction_. It's a reenactment of history for teenage girls – what else can you expect them to care about? Geopolitics? Military disarmament? The philosophy of war?" She brushed the idea out of the air. "Don't be silly."

"Who plays you?"

She frowned. "Some unknown — honestly, it's discouraging and not a little disappointing. All she does is stand on rocks and balconies and buildings and in front of windows yelling, 'Heeeeeerrrrro!'"

"Do I answer?"

"No. How could you hurt my, I mean, _her_ feelings like that? If it were true love, you should just know whenever she's thinking about you."

"You mean telepathically?" he deadpanned.

"What other way is there for soulmates?" she sighed.

Heero rubbed his temples, a painstakingly patient look on his face. "How can we be soulmates if I'm off eyesexing Duo?"

"Oh, that. Well, there are two camps of thought – or so I hear," she added quickly. "There are the you-and-me shippers and then there are you-and-Duo rabid fangirls. It can get nasty," she shuddered delicately, "when the two groups collide on a message board."

He nodded. "I think I understand the pairings now."

Relena glanced at him. "So who do you ship, Heero?"

"What?" Heero smiled enigmatically. "Can't you read my mind?"

* * *

-

A/N- Oh, sneaky Relena! I love writing snarky!Heero and bantering!Relena together. Think of this as a small attempt at satire about the fandom. Thank you for reading!


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